


Sunfire

by IndigoDream



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angry Jaskier | Dandelion, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, In-Universe but I also don't care much about canon so, M/M, Magic, Monsters, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Post-Canon, Temporary Character Death, Violence, canon is vaguely hinted at and that's about it, the inherent homoeroticism of sword fighting, very angry Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:42:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23482606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoDream/pseuds/IndigoDream
Summary: It's been almost two years since Jaskier left Geralt on that mountain top, and since then he has become angrier and angrier as he tried to forget the one he loves. Despite having sworn to himself he wouldn't go seeking adventure (and possibly Geralt), when words reach him that there is a beast in the village of Gavaudan, he packs up and travels there. He meets back up with Geralt, accompanied by Ciri, on their way to Kaer Morhen. After an argument with Geralt, he leaves the town -- and runs into the famed Beast of Gavaudan. He doesn't die, and yet... Things are different.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 45
Kudos: 539





	Sunfire

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> I love this fandom?? So yeah if you see a lot of me around, it's because I've grown obsessed with those two, and the whole atmosphere of the show. Despite not having actually WATCHED the episode, I know what goes down between Geralt and Jaskier (yes it's a part of why I haven't watched it yet... But it's on my todo list!), and so I set out with this fic to see how to mend things. 
> 
> I had intended to set it all in Gavaudan around the mystery of the beast, which are from a local legend in the south of France (The Beast of Gevaudan) where my family is, it quickly spiralled out into a much bigger thing. I hope you'll enjoy it! 
> 
> Don't hesitate to come see me on tumblr (@saltytransidiot) where I post a lot about those two idiots, and sometimes even about those two with Yennefer. Recently, I even managed (with help) to rewrite Dolly Parton's Jolene into a geraskier song lmao. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Jaskier doesn’t expect to see Geralt ever again, after what the witcher said on that damned mountain. To be honest, Jaskier doesn’t _want_ to see the witcher again. And yet, when he hears about the Beast that’s said to be hunting a region in the northern part of the Continent, he packs his bag and heads out of Oxenfurt with a young dark stallion. 

The horse doesn’t really like him at first, and Jaskier wonders what it is with horses and him. Then he reminds himself he should not be thinking about Geralt, that the witcher doesn’t deserve any of his thoughts. Still, Roach isn’t her rider, and she had had her moments of fondness for him. So Jaskier makes an effort with his horse; he names it Hellebore, and ignores the voice in his head that tells him it’s ridiculous. It sounds too much like Geralt when he had been in a good mood, and Jaskier still hurts. 

He arrives in Gavaudan three weeks after having departed Oxenfurt. He took his time, stayed in inns along the way, took only the safest paths. He is alone now, and much more vulnerable than before. He doesn’t have Geralt lurking behind him, protecting him without even meaning too. He stops at the first inn he finds, pays handsomely for Hellebore to be taken care of. He gets why Geralt is so fond of his horse now, and he hates that he does. 

He hates that every single of his thought is always running back to the damn witcher, who couldn’t appreciate him, who had told him he was a plague on life itself. Perhaps he hadn’t used those exact words, yes, but Jaskier is smart enough to know what Geralt says without saying. 

“That’s what friends do,” Jaskier had joked around a mug of ale once, drowning the sorrow of that word with the alcohol. He had never been quite brave enough to tell Geralt about his feelings for him. 

“Hmm.” Geralt had answered lightly, and Jaskier had thought that the light in his eyes was fondness. 

Jaskier had been wrong. 

He orders himself a meal, settles at a table in a corner, ignores Geralt’s voice in his mind telling him he shouldn’t let himself be cornered that way. _Fuck you_ , he thinks to that voice, _fuck you and fuck all your advices_. It’s been almost two years since that fucking mountain, and Jaskier is still trying to deal with the pain it had caused in him. 

The door of the inn slams open, but Jaskier doesn’t look up. He is plucking at his lute, wondering if he will play tonight. He doesn’t have much coin left, and could definitely put an act, but he knows which of his songs would be requested. Everyone still want to hear his first success, the song he wrote to neaten up Geralt’s reputation. He should never have done that. It’s been a curse on him more than any actual curse he has actually encountered through years of travel. 

“Fuck.”

The voice _isn’t_ in his head this time, and that’s what makes him look up. Geralt of Rivia, the bane of Jaskier’s existence, is actually here, standing in front of the table. Of course he would stop in the same inn, of course he would want the same damned table as Jaskier. The bard is willing to bet he hadn’t even noticed him until right now. 

“Witcher.” Jaskier keeps his voice cold and calm, but he doesn’t know how long he can take of that. He has never been good at keeping his emotions to himself, and his fingers are already back to plucking the strings of his lute nervously. 

“Geralt?”A head pokes around the frozen giant of a man standing in front of Jaskier’s table. “Is everything alright?” 

Jaskier can’t help but recognize her. He had sang at her mother’s engagement party after all, and Queen Calanthe had invited him a few times over the years. Though, Jaskier had always gotten the impression it was more Eist doing than the Lioness of Cintra’s. Clearly, Princess Cirilla recognizes him as well, because her eyes widen and she quickly steps back behind Geralt. 

“Listen, Jaskier, I—“ 

“Don’t you even try,” Jaskier fixes him with an icy glare, and Geralt shifts slightly. “Sit down. I see you’ve gathered your Child Surprise.”

“Don’t talk so loudly,” Geralt grunts, but he pushes Ciri gently in front of him, so that she’ll sit across from Jaskier, before sitting next to her. He shields her from view of the room this way, and Jaskier understands better why Geralt would have chosen this table now. “She needs to keep a low profile.” 

“Right, I wonder why,” Jaskier says, and immediately regrets it as he watches Cirilla’s eyes fall down. “I’m sorry, pri— What should I call you now?” 

She gives Geralt a look and he nods. “Ciri, please, master Jaskier.” 

“Oh, just Jaskier around those parts darling,” he smiles gently, a soft warmth filling him at seeing Cirilla grown up and brave enough to be here. 

He’s glad to know she’s alive. He had heard of Cintra’s fall, of course, but he had tried to not think about it. Cintra was filled with memories of Geralt, memories of a time when he had been allowed to touch him, to cherish him, even if only in secret. Cintra was too many memories that made his heart ache and his eyes overflow with tears. 

He smiles gently at her, and she smiles back, and for one glorious moment, the world feels alright. And then Jaskier remembers why he is there, and he gives Geralt a furious glare. “Why did you bring her here? It’s not any safer than…” he doesn’t say the words, but they hang heavy in the air. 

“We are just stopping for the night,” Geralt answers, “We are on our way to Kaer Morhen.” 

The ancestral home of the witchers, Kaer Morhen. There is a twinge of something in the bard’s chest at the trust Geralt displays still. He wouldn’t have told anyone this. He wouldn’t have told someone he hated this. Jaskier hates that the something in his chest feels like hope, like delight and joy and happiness, and all those things he thought he had lost when Geralt cursed him out of the mountain.

Ignoring his own feelings, Jaskier focuses back on Geralt, who is quietly eating his meal, keeping an eye on Ciri, something almost fond and soft in his face. Jaskier understands the logic behind going to Kaer Morhen. It’s a safe place, where he will be able to protect her. Something bothers him though. Couldn’t Geralt have picked a better town to stop in? When he points that out to the Witcher, trying to keep his voice as low as possible as to not panic Ciri, the white haired man frowns. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard about the Beast around here,” Jaskier says, “there are rumours of it throughout the whole Continent.” 

“I have been pretty busy.” 

Jaskier rolls his eyes and is about to start explaining when a man slams his palm on the table. 

“Witcher! We need you,” he says roughly. “You’ve gotta find the Beast and kill it!” 

And here they go. Ciri shrinks in her seat, and she hides her hair under that lovely blue cape. If anyone were to look at her closely, they would see that she is wearing fine clothing, and rumours would travel of the rich maiden traveling with the witcher. Jaskier frowns a bit, wonders how Geralt has even managed to protect her so far. If he has to guess from the state of their clothes, lots of nights under the starless night sky. 

“I don’t take contracts anymore,” Geralt grunts, but the man isn’t leaving. 

“You have to help us! The Beast has taken all our herds and now it’s attacking our people! There hasn’t been a witcher here in years, we need your help.” 

Jaskier, as angry as he wants to be Geralt, as petty as he wants to be, can’t help but feel for the man’s pleas. 

“Tell us more about this beast,” he says, and doesn’t pay attention to the surprise in the golden eyes across him, “Perhaps it doesn’t need the help of a witcher?” 

“It’s enormous, master bard,” the man says, having noticed the lute, and perhaps the fanciful clothes Jaskier never parts with. “At least seven feet high, with teeth sharper than any weapon. It used to always attack in the night, but it isn’t afraid of fire or light of any kind. Two days ago, it attacked a group of girls, not older than fifteen, and only one of them managed to run away! When we found the bodies, they were… there wasn’t much left for us to give back to the families.” 

Geralt has been tensing up ever since the man has started his description, but now he looks purely furious, and equally worried, if Jaskier can still read him. 

“It hasn’t attacked anyone before?” Jaskier asks, “Just your livestock?” 

“Well, the truth is,” the man looks ashamed, “some fellow from the next village over, he tried to tell us about a monster that had been hunting around them, but we didn’t listen to him. We thought he was drunk, master Bard! But when the sheep started missing, some men went to the village, to find the man again, but they came back empty-handed. Said the village was just ruins and dried blood everywhere.” 

“A beast alright,” Jaskier whistles slightly, and he can see Ciri cocking her head at him. “Geralt, you should take the contract.” 

“No,” the witcher says roughly. 

“Please, witcher,” the man almost begs, and Jaskier has the feeling this is much more than protecting his town. 

“Your daughter was amongst the girls killed, wasn’t she?” He asks this without pity in his voice, but he does feel sorry for the man. He clearly had loved his daughter, enough to come ask Geralt for help, when most people were still reluctant to do so despite Jaskier’s best effort. 

“She was, master Bard. She was barely twelve, my girl,” he says, voice choking around a name he can’t pronounce. “We don’t want to lose our children to this beast anymore, master Witcher,” he looks back at Geralt. “We will pay you, handsomely! Twice the amount you would usually get for any normal creature.” 

“Keep your coin,” Geralt growls, about to look away, but Ciri puts her hand on his wrist and he looks down at her. 

“You should do it Geralt,” Ciri says, voice low. “I can stay here with master Jaskier.” 

“Absolutely,” Jaskier nods. 

He feels sorry for the man and the town, and he also worries a bit that it could attack Geralt and Ciri on the road. If Geralt kills it now, then Jaskier can walk away after that without any moral problem, without wondering if the last princess of Cintra will die, and so will the White Wolf before they can ever reach the safety of Kaer Morhen.

“I can protect her,” Jaskier continues before Geralt can even say anything, “You made sure I knew how to use a weapon.” 

Evenings spent sparring with Geralt, seeing the witcher almost smile whenever Jaskier did something even slightly clever, come back to his mind. 

Geralt grunts, looks back at Ciri, and nods at the man. “Alright. Half the pay now, for my companions.” 

The man doesn’t even protest, and that goes to show how desperate the town must be. Jaskier has never seen them not haggle with Geralt. Jaskier has had to haggle them more than once when they were trying to cheat Geralt out of his well earned money. 

“Thank you.” The words come, surprisingly, from Geralt, and are directed at Jaskier.

“I’m not doing it for you,” Jaskier answers, and he pushes away the guilt he feels when he sees a hint of sadness in those beautiful golden eyes. “They need someone to help them, and you are a witcher. You’ve fought and won against creatures worse than this beast I’m sure. I’ll keep my eyes on Ciri until you’re back.” 

Geralt nods again, and turns back to his child surprise. Jaskier almost wonders if he isn’t hallucinating, because he sees Geralt kiss the crown of her hair tenderly, and then saying something softly, something that makes the young princess smile. He leaves after that, barely finishing his meal, but Jaskier is stunned into silence. 

Ciri finishes her meal quickly, clearly hungry, and he lets her have some of his own meal. Seeing Geralt again, being confronted to him after two years of heartache disguised as anger… It has left him without his usual appetite. 

He brings Ciri to the room Geralt had reserved for them, and smiles a bit bitterly as he sees the single bed in the room. Geralt will need to rest when he comes back, and Ciri is a princess who clearly needs some comfort in her life. Jaskier has spent his fair share of time on the floor; one more night won’t hurt him. 

“Come on,” he tells her gently and smiles. “Gets some rest, Ciri. Geralt will be back in the morning and you two will be able to go back on the road together. After that, he might even splurge and let you have a bath! A great luxury, when traveling with him, I assure you.” 

She smiles a bit and doesn’t protest when he helps her get in bed. “You’ve traveled with him before?” 

Jaskier swallows his pride, forgets his own pain. He needs to take care of the lost princess tucked in bed next to him. “I have. For quite a while, if you must know.” 

“He doesn’t talk much,” she says a bit quietly. “I don’t think he is very happy I’m here.” 

“I think he is quite happy to see you,” Jaskier says and sits on the bed next to her, making sure she is alright with that. “I think what he isn’t happy with are the circumstances. He never wanted any harm to come to you.” 

“It’s a bit too late for that,” she whispers, and he caresses her hair gently. “You’re angry with him.” 

She has the same way of phrasing questions that aren’t questions as Geralt, and Jaskier hates how endearing he finds that. “How have you guessed?” 

“Well, you cut him off when he tried to apologize. Also, you called him witcher. And he looked sad when you did. Like he was expecting you to call him something else.” 

_My dear witcher_ , Jaskier had used to call him, and so many other terms of endearments that he had let slip out without really having paid attention to it. He had loved Geralt, and it’s this love that has slowly been suffocating him ever since Geralt forced him out of his life. 

“I’m sure he wasn’t sad,” Jaskier keeps caressing her hair and he smiles gently as she angles herself to lean into the touch. She is still so young, and she has lived so much. “He was the one who told me to leave.” 

“Will you forgive him?” 

_No_ , Jaskier wants to say, but he already knows that he has started to. Despite everything, he still loves Geralt. Even Yennefer had seen it. 

“Poor bard is in love with his muse,” she had said, almost full of pity, “you would think the bard was smarter than that.” 

Geralt hadn’t picked up on it. 

“In time, yes. He has to apologize properly for that first though.” 

She glances up at him, a larger smile on her face. “You would have to let him for that to happen.” 

He huffs, amused with the princess. She isn’t wrong. “Get some rest Ciri.” 

“Tell me about your adventures with him. Please, Jaskier.” She looks back down, teeth worrying her lower lips. “I’m worried he won’t come back…” 

He draws her closer to himself and hugs her gently. “He has always come back. And he has you now, he would never abandon you, Ciri. No matter what, he will be back.” 

She still looks down, so he starts talking, letting her doze off as he keeps recounting Geralt’s exploit in the least descriptive manner he can. 

Geralt comes back in the early morning, and Jaskier has bitten his lips raw, blood pearling from a few points. 

“Finally,” he almost yells, but catches himself, simply whispering loudly. 

Ciri is still sleeping soundly, and when he moves out of the bed, she whimpers slightly. It tears at his heart, but she doesn’t wake up. Jaskier turns his head back to Geralt, and he sees the blood sticking to the Witcher’s chest and neck, coating the end of his hair. 

“Shit,” he swears and comes to grab Geralt, who wraps an arm around his shoulder, “Fuck, Geralt, stay with me here!” 

Geralt grunts and lets himself be supported by the smaller man. “Monster was bigger than expected,” he groans as Jaskier steers him to sit on the window ledge. It’s the only place Jaskier can have him sitting besides the bed, and he is trying his hardest to let Ciri rest. 

With moves that haven’t lost any of their sharpness in the two years they’ve spent apart, Jaskier takes off Geralt’s armour, and the feeling of blood that coats his fingers is one he would have liked to forget. Geralt groans, and Jaskier’s hand immediately comes up to clutch the Witcher’s. 

“Shh,” he whispers gently, letting all the tenderness he feels for the other man shine through his voice. There will come a time for explanations and anger, but right now Jaskier has to focus on helping him. “It’ll be alright. We’ll patch you up, we have done so before, haven’t we?” 

He keeps talking gently and Geralt relaxes under his touch. The bard feels the weight of the golden eyes on him as he starts cleaning the wound as best as he can, tearing apart one of his old shirts still clean in his bag. The room is slowly filling with light as the sun rises over the mountains Gavaudan is nestled in, and the dark red of Geralt’s blood is tainting Jaskier’s blue shirt and dripping all over Jaskier’s hands, but Jaskier doesn’t care. 

“You don’t get to die on me right now,” he hears himself say faintly, “You hear that Geralt? I won’t ever forgive you if you abandon me right here. And what about Ciri, am I supposed to bring her to Kaer Morhen on my own? She needs you, she needs you so much, and I need you too Geralt, I need you so much. It eats me alive, how much I need you by my side, you know that?” 

His voice is indistinct to him, too frantic as he cleans the wound repeatedly, pressing until he can feel the blood stop pumping. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt rasps, low and heavy, “My potion.” 

That Geralt asks to be given his potion means there must be some poison in the wound, and Jaskier rushes to Geralt’s bag. He knows exactly which potion Geralt is asking for. The few times he had seen Geralt use it, he had committed it to his memory, in case the witcher would ever be in need of it but unable to get it himself. He had committed everything about Geralt to his memory anyway at this point, and he doubt he would ever forget it. 

He brings back the potion and helps Geralt drink it. It’s only when Geralt’s hands settles on his own, the witcher’s so large and so warm in comparison to his own, that he realizes he is shaking. Geralt’s hands stay on his, and Jaskier looks up, into the two pool of gold staring at him, and he finds a small smile on the face of his witcher, even as he recovers. 

“Well now, what has you smiling?” His voice is shaky too, and there are tears running down his cheeks. 

How embarrassing, he can’t even control himself in front of Geralt. He is supposed to /hate/ him. He isn’t supposed to cry when the man barely gets what called a scratch in the witchering business. 

“You,” Geralt’s rumble is deep and takes Jaskier out of his thoughts. 

“What, my misery’s got you laughing now, is that it? And I thought that you might be—“ 

He is interrupted by soft lips on his, softer than anything he could have ever imagined. It’s a dream, a delight, and yet it all feels so strange. It feels like it shouldn’t be, not when Geralt is covered in blood, not when they still haven’t spoken to each other, not when… 

Jaskier stops thinking and lets himself sink into the kiss, into the warm touch of Geralt. He closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy this moment. He forgets everything else than the feeling of rough hands drying his tears as a mouth softer than it should be devour his own. If this is a dream, Jaskier doesn’t want to ever wake up. 

When Geralt draws back, Jaskier sits on his heels, astonished. What is he supposed to do with this now? How is he supposed to cling to the anger in his throat, when he wants to taste those lips again and again, until he forgets what he was before he knew what it was like to kiss Geralt of Rivia. 

“Yen was right, this really is the only way to shut you up,” Geralt says warmly, and it sounds like affection, but the name, the nickname, snaps Jaskier out of the reverie he had lost himself in, where Geralt might love him back. 

How dare he, how dare he play with Jaskier’s feeling this way? How dare he bring _her_ up in this moments? The tears in Jaskier’s eyes are of anger this time, and he stands up, fury making him righteous. He feels like he could be glowing with power in the early morning light, like the sun could be gathering in his palm. And when he strikes Geralt, harsh on his cheek, the witcher isn’t expecting it, and it does feel like Jaskier is hot with the wrath of the gods. 

“Don’t you fucking dare play me like that, Geralt of Rivia.” He tosses him the blood soaked shirt and strides out of the room indignantly, only grabbing his lute when he sees it. When he slams the door behind him, he doesn’t listen to the soft voice calling out for him. 

“Master Bard?” The innkeeper is up already, and Jaskier nods at him, but he doesn’t stop.

“Keep my room ready for me,” he says, barely recognizes his own voice as he speaks the order. “I’ll be back before the end of the day.” 

He gets Hellebore out of his stall, and the stallion greets him happily. He ignores the mare he knows is Roach. He can’t even face the Witcher’s horse right now. 

“Come on boy,” he tells his horse fondly, and he can’t believe he started three weeks ago and already considers Hellebore like an essential part of his life. Perhaps, as some people had pointed out in the past, he does get attached too easily. 

He walks out of Gavaudan and into the forest quickly enough. He doesn’t need to look back to be sure that no one is following him, and he hates that he almost feels disappointed. Finding a meadow pleasant enough for him to sit in and for Hellebore to walk around turns out to be easier than expected, and he settles against a rock as his stallion eats some wildflowers, looking perfectly content like this. He plays and sings to his heart content, he sings to the ugliness of love and the cruelty of men. He hates to admit it, but there are tears that fall to the ground and feed the grass when he remembers what he thought he had, for one glorious moment. He mourns his crushed hopes and his broken heart all over again, like he has just left Geralt at the mountain top all over again. Like he is alone in the world all over again. He falls asleep in the sun afterwards, the gentle rays caressing his skin and warming him to his core. 

He wakes up in the meadow, and Hellebore is gone. The sun is still there, but cold sweeps through him anyway. Hellebore might be gone, but Jaskier isn’t the only being in the meadow. 

Sitting on its hind legs, an enormous beast is staring at him, three unblinking yellow eyes staring at him. Jaskier does not move. He simply stares back, tries to think, but all his thoughts are muddled. He feels heavy with sleep still, but panic is rising in him, and the beast’s ears are moving slightly, as if picking up on the erratic beats of his heart. 

It’s large, and Jaskier remembers what Geralt had said as he had stumbled back inside. The Beast he had fought, whatever it was, had been bigger than expected. Jaskier doesn’t want to assume too many things in life, but he feels pretty confident in saying that Geralt had confronted the bigger, older Beast that the villagers didn’t know even existed, and not the actual goddamn fucking monster in front of Jaskier right now. 

Sharp teeth, black as charcoal, peer through the dark brown fur covering the monster, and Jaskier swallows. At least, he will have known what kissing Geralt felt like before dying. He won’t let himself die like a coward though. He might not be a witcher, but he has travelled with one long enough to know to always carry a blade with him. He stands up slowly, and so does the beast. Seven feet tall, the man had said the previous night, and Jaskier is inclined to agree. The meadow feels too small now, and Jaskier’s hand closes against the small dagger he keeps in his doublet at all time now. 

“Come on, pup,” he dares the hell beast in front of him, glaring at it. “Come play with me.” 

The dagger in his hand shines in the sun now that it’s out. It doesn’t have silver in it, would probably be inefficient against any of the monsters Geralt fights on a daily basis, let alone this one, but it does give courage to Jaskier. He doesn’t flinch when the beast moves one giant paw, and then another. He doesn’t flinch when it stops in front of him and sniffs the air. 

When giant teeth tries to close on him, almost delicately if not for the sharpness of them, Jaskier stabs the nearest thing he can. It turns out to be the very end of the muzzle, and he is grateful for the years of dancing along to his music and of walking next to Roach when he has to move out of the way fast enough. His muscles react before his brain, and he is out of reach fast. Too fast. His head swirls slightly, but teeth are back over him, and a paw bigger than his torso settles on him. Nails, claws, whatever they are, they dig in Jaskier’s skin, tearing his shirt, and he cries out in pain. It’s unbearable, so slow and so careful. 

He can feel his blood trickling down, and the beast’s mouth opens wider and wider, and there is Jaskier’s inferno, where all his talent will rest for eternity. 

“Fuck you,” Jaskier growls out, and he thrusts his arm upwards with a yell of pain. It tears at his whole body, but the dagger finds its way in the mouth of the beast, burying itself deep in the delicate skin there. 

The monster yelps and his nails dig deeper into Jaskier as he tries to dislocate the dagger. It’s too small and too deeply pushed in for the damned thing to get it out by just shaking its head though. Droplets of the monster’s blood fall on Jaskier as the beast tries to shake it out, and another shout of pain is torn from the bard’s throat. The blood burns and sizzles on his skin, drilling holes as it attacks him like its owner is doing. 

Jaskier can feel himself slipping, can feel his whole body, which had been so alight with pain, fall numb as the beast refocuses on him completely. He sees the black teeth again, sees those three yellow eyes, and he feels the sun burning his skin again, and then he forgets that he exists. 

A shout, something loud and more blood sizzling on his skin. Movements is disrupting his rest, and Jaskier groans slightly. Hands in his hair, soft voice, the sun, the sun, the sun. 

He burns and burns until there is nothing left to burn anymore, until he feels the aching fade all over again. And then, he sleeps.

When he wakes up, there is a cold towel wrapped around his head, and bandages all around his torso. He groans and tries to open his eyes, but something is covering them too. 

“Jaskier!” Soft voice. He knows the soft voice. Ciri. 

“Ciri,” he rasps out. His throat is dry, and he is so thirsty, and his body is burning still, but it’s a nice burn, something that keeps him awake, alive. “Water…” 

“Yes! Of course!” He hears a rustle of clothes and the filling of a cup, and then it’s pressed against his lips, and water falls all over him, but he barely feels it. It feels so good to drink, and the water is cool and perfect. 

“Don’t move,” the girl says, and there is movement again. “I’m going to go get them!” 

_Them_? Who is _them_? Last he remembers, there had only been Geralt and Ciri… No… The last thing he remembers is the beast, tearing him apart, ready to devour him, the mouth opening and closing, and the blood, all the blood that sizzled and buried itself in his skin. His lips part again as he remembers the feeling of dying, and he lets out a small noise of pain. 

“Jaskier.” Harsher voice. Voice of the one he loves. Tears fall from Jaskier’s eyes, soaking the tissue that covers them. Geralt. Geralt is here, somewhere, and then Geralt is right there, close, and Jaskier can feel him hovering next to the bed. 

“Oh for the gods’ sake, Geralt, he clearly isn’t going to break in half if you hold him.” Another voice, and this one Jaskier isn’t as happy to hear. Yennefer is here too, and she’ll take Geralt away from him again, and again, and again, until there is no more Geralt to take away and— “Calm down, Jaskier,” she says a bit more kindly. “You’ll only hurt yourself more if you keep being this agitated.” 

“Why… My eyes…” He rasps this out and feels a hand, Geralt’s hand, touching his hair. 

“We had to keep them covered,” Yennefer says from somewhere within the room. “I wasn’t exactly sure of how long they were going to keep doing… whatever they were doing.” 

“What?” Jaskier sits up slowly, and pain ripples through his body, forcing him to stop his effort. 

“You said he was healing!” Geralt snaps, and his hand leaves Jaskier’s hair. 

“He is,” Yennefer snaps back. 

“Could you two not argue right now?” Ciri’s voice sounds annoyed, a bit closer to Jaskier, on his other side. “You’ve already spent half the morning doing that.” 

Jaskier’s lips stretch in a smile, and the chuckle he lets out hurt, but he doesn’t regret it. “Smart girl,” he whispers, and he can almost hear Ciri’s answering smile. 

“Sorry,” Geralt grunts out. “What can we do to ease the pain?” 

“I don’t know,” Yennefer says with some clear frustration in her voice. “The last time you brought him to me, he was human. Now he is… something else. I don’t really know how to treat that.” 

“What?” Jaskier’s vocabulary is becoming more and more limited clearly, and he grunts. “Get that thing off my eyes, I can’t stand it.” 

The whole sentence drains him, but he attempts to move his hands himself anyway when silence reigns in the room. 

“Don’t do that,” Ciri slaps his hands down gently, and after a small silence, she slowly removes the heavy tissue that’s covering Jaskier’s eyes. “Keep your eyes closed for a bit, alright?” 

He nods and her hands are delicate around his head. He feels a bit more free as the cloth is removed, and he breathes out deeply. Light caresses his eyelids, and his eyes flutter open and close for a few seconds. 

“Take it easy,” Geralt says on his left. 

Jaskier hums slightly, and when he opens his eyes, he expects to be flooded by the amount of light in the room. Instead, he is rather disappointed to find that they are in near darkness, except for a small lamp on a table. Yennefer is standing next to it, and despite looking tired, she is as beautiful and elegant as ever. Jealousy spikes through Jaskier and he looks away. He’ll never be able to compete with her, not with how smart and beautiful she is. It isn’t even jealousy anymore, he realizes softly. He has, somehow, come to term with the fact that Geralt will never love him back. He just wishes he didn’t have to be reminded of that fact by seeing her right now. 

Geralt’s hand moves his chin gently, and he finds himself looking into the Witcher’s eyes. He is looking for something in Jaskier’s eyes, and his glance moves around Jaskier’s face. For a second, his gaze lingers on Jaskier’s lips, and the bard can almost feel the kiss again.

“How are you feeling?” His voice is quiet, but the room is so silent that it almost sounds like it’s booming. 

“Like I got crushed by a beast?” Jaskier smiles a bit weakly. “What happened exactly? And why do you say I’m not human, Yennefer?” 

“Because you aren’t. Not anymore at least,” she sighs. “You do have a trick for getting yourself into trouble, bard. Did you offend a mage?” 

Geralt and Ciri help him sit up, and he drinks again, looking back at her pensively. “Last time I did, it was you, I reckon. I doubt that you would be here if you had cursed me though.” 

“There is no curse,” she says, and frustration shines in her purple eyes. “You are just… Not human anymore. You’re healing, slowly, but you are healing. I can only help along the way, when your body accepts my magic.” 

Jaskier frowns. “How can I not be human anymore?” 

“That’s what I would like to know as well. Any enlightening ideas, Geralt?” 

A silence greets her words, and Jaskier looks up at the witcher, surprised. 

“It’s not like we are going to have a better understanding of it right now anyway,” Ciri says, her hand clutching Jaskier’s. “When we got to the meadow, he was already halfway gone, and then he started… burning up. And glowing.” 

“Did you just say glowing,” he asks her, because at this point he is inclined to believing that this is whole a near-death hallucination. Or something. It can’t be possible. 

“Jaskier,” she walks closer, extends a hand, and a flower stands in her palm, black and soft, and he knows it. “You know what this is, don’t you?” 

“Hellebore,” he breathes out. “Poisonous buttercup.” 

“Exactly. One of the oldest poison there is in the world. Eat it.” 

“What?!” 

“Are you crazy?” 

“The could kill him!” 

“Do you all really think I would kill Jaskier in front of witnesses?” She looks annoyed. “If I were to do it. Which I won’t. I won’t waste my magic on a bard.” 

“You do care, Yennefer,” Jaskier grins a bit and takes the flower from her hand quickly. “So sweet of you.” 

She rolls her eyes but smiles, and bats Geralt’s hand away as he tries to stop Jaskier from eating the poisonous flower. “You know how it is. Can’t quite ever get rid of you.” 

He smiles, and when he swallows the flower, he gives her a wink. Maybe she has Geralt, and maybe he doesn’t, but Jaskier doesn’t completely hates her. She has a bite to her that he adores, even if he would never tell her. 

“Spit it out!” Geralt orders next to him, and Jaskier laughs a bit. 

“Gods, what am I, Roach?” He smiles broadly at Geralt, and then he feels something, something shifting inside him, and he groans loudly as he feels something moving inside him. A cut closes on his chest, and he sinks back into darkness as Geralt covers his eyes with his hands. 

“You’re glowing again. Interesting.” Yennefer moves Geralt out of the way, and the witcher protests but relents. His hands leave Jaskier’s face, and they are replaced by the much more delicate, much smaller, hands of Yennefer. 

“I need to be alone with him.” She tells Geralt and Ciri. “I can’t examine him properly if you two are going to be looking over my shoulder with everything I do.” 

“Absolutely not,” Geralt growls, and Jaskier sighs. 

“Get out, Geralt. She won’t hurt me. You wouldn’t have called her if you thought she would. You too, dear Ciri. I’m sure Yennefer will help me get back on my feet in an instant, don’t you two worry.” 

He smiles bravely, as if Geralt can’t sense the pain and worry off him. It’s easier to send them away when he keeps his eyes closed. He doesn’t want to see the frustration build up on Geralt’s handsome face. 

“Alright,” Geralt relents, and then he is close, and his lips kiss Jaskier’s forehead tenderly. “Call out if you need me.” 

Jaskier is too stunned to answer, and he hears Ciri and Geralt leave without another word. 

“Yennefer,” he asks in a trembling voice. “Tell me the truth. Am I dead?” 

The sorceress chuckles. “No. You aren’t dead, Jaskier. Despite the world’s best efforts, you remain alive. Now, feeling ready to look at things again?”

“I mean, not any more or less than when I had the flower, but…” She removes her hands from his eyes. “Why do my eyes need to be covered?” 

She sighs, changing the cool cloth on his forehead. “I told you. They glow. At least that’s the only thing I can explain it with.” 

“Can I see?” 

“Can you see your own eyes? No Jaskier, I haven’t yet discovered the spell that will make you see from outside your body. And there are no mirrors around here.” 

“Where is here?” 

“Gavaudan, still. Geralt and Ciri brought you back after the attack.” 

“What was the monster?” He takes a few sip of the blessedly cool water and looks around the room. It’s a bit unkempt, and he frowns. “How long was I … unconscious?” 

“Four days. And the monster was… Geralt doesn’t really know, and neither do I. He killed it, but we don’t know if there might not be any other in the mountains.” 

“It was the pup,” Jaskier nods. “Geralt had already killed the mother. Is his wound healed?” 

“You nearly got torn apart by an unknown beast, and you wonder if the witcher is alright? Gods, you two deserve each other.” She shakes her head, amused. “Yes. I checked the wound, and everything is alright.” 

They manage to talk a bit more, and he asks some questions, but she doesn’t always answer. She focuses on looking at him, and looks surprised when she sees one of the wounds has closed up in a neat scar. 

“Hellebore,” he shrugs as an explanation. 

“Absolutely fascinating,” she answers. Her fingers trace delicately the scar, and Jaskier shivers. “You react to poison the way anyone would react to medicine… Simply accelerated. It’s almost like you have the metabolism of a witcher, but activated by poison rather than potions.” 

“And that means…?” 

“I don’t know,” she shrugs and looks back into his eyes. “You’re exhausted. Rest up, before your witcher breaks through the door to make sure I haven’t harmed you.” 

Jaskier is already settling back in bed, a yawn overtaking him for an instant, and he looks at her, hoping the sadness he feels isn’t reflected in his eyes. “He isn’t mine.” 

The laughter that escapes her lips is unexpected. “Oh poor little bard. Don’t you know? He’s always been yours. Even when he was in my arms, he was yours. He reached out to me for the first time in two years because you were hurt, and he has been getting angrier and sulkier with every passing hour you didn’t wake up. Though, he did seem to appreciate when you started speaking halfway through the third night.” 

“Oh no,” Jaskier gasps in horror. “What did I say.” 

“If I remember well, you told him he was an absolute moron and that if he was ever going to be forgiven, he was going to have to do more than show up and bat his pretty eyelashes at you.”

Jaskier groans, this time in embarrassment, and she laughs again. “Gods, why couldn’t I have died simply and not have been an utter idiot?”

“Come on Jaskier,” she smiles, purple eyes full of mirth. “You would never had the chance to be petty if you had died.” 

So, he had said something like that in his sleep as well. Good to know. She pats his hand lightly and stands up.

“Rest,” she orders, and then walks to the door. 

Jaskier falls asleep again, and he barely has the time to feel Geralt’s warm hand over his hair. Yennefer’s words haunt him through his sleep. _He’s always been yours_. What did that even mean? Geralt had always been anything but Jaskier’s. Not his friend, not his companion, certainly not his lover. No amount of wishing and praying could have changed that. 

The next few days are hazy. He eats some, talks a bit with Ciri and Yennefer, but mostly, he sleeps. But his body heals, heals without stopping, and four days after he first woke up, he manages to stand up on his own. No one’s in the room — Ciri just left to get him something to eat, and Geralt is out somewhere. Yennefer has probably gone to get more of the herbs she makes him eat, or maybe to go see the corpse of the monster Geralt had killed. Her words are still loud in his mind, but he has a hard time believing them, when Geralt’s affection seems to only exist when Jaskier is asleep, or too tired to answer it. Maybe it’s for the best. After all, even if it were true, Geralt would never allow Jaskier to come with Ciri and him to Kaer Mohren. Jaskier’s just a bard, a very talented one, but he is no witcher, no one of importance. 

Standing up feels like an achievement, and when he gets slightly dizzy, he sits back, but the broad smile on his face is wide and unmissable. He is slowly coming back to his own self, and he absolutely loves it.

It’s not Ciri who comes back to the room with a plate of stew, but Geralt, and the witcher frowns at seeing him sitting at the edge of his bed. 

“What are you doing up,” he asks and comes closer to Jaskier, unsure suddenly as he holds the bowl. “Did you need anything?” 

“No,” Jaskier sighs a bit. “I just wanted to stretch my legs a bit. Thanks for the food.” 

Geralt nods and gives it to him, helping him sit back against the headboard. The man’s presence is awkward, the reminder of their last moment alone strong between them. Geralt had been hurt, and then there had been that kiss… and then the slap. Jaskier regrets that one a bit. Even if he thinks Geralt had only kissed him to make him shut up, he shouldn’t have hit him.

“Listen—“ He starts, at the same time as Geralt says “Jaskier, I—“ 

They both stop, chuckle uneasily, and Geralt nods at him. “You go first.” 

“I shouldn’t have slapped you,” Jaskier sighs and eats some of the stew. “Even if I… Even if your reason for kissing me upset me, I shouldn’t have done so. I’m sorry about that.” 

Geralt sighs as well and looks away. “I didn’t mind the slap,” he says roughly, struggling with voicing his own emotions in a manner Jaskier is familiar with. “I minded that you thought I would only kiss you to shut you up.”

“To be fair—“ 

“I know what I said,” Geralt growls, stopping him from interrupting more. “But I misspoke. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m not like you. I’m not good at words, I’m not… I don’t know how to tell you everything I feel.” 

Jaskier puts down the stew on the bedside table and turns to look at Geralt. “Go on,” he nods. He had promised himself he wouldn’t make it easy on the witcher, if he ever came back to apologize. Jaskier is nothing if not petty, and even as his heart stammers in his chest, he needs those words. If Geralt is sincere about all of this, then he won’t mind the temporary discomfort. Hopefully. 

“I’ve been… Harsh. Awful. An asshole, to you. I know I can’t take back those words I said in the past, but I… I don’t want to lose you again, Jaskier. You are… You are dear to me.” The witcher looks awkward, apologizing and exposing his heart like this, but Jaskier doesn’t interrupt. “I didn’t realize until you were gone. I didn’t realize that you… your company was all I needed. All I need, still. I have Ciri now and I … I don’t think I can do this without you. She is… different from me.” 

Jaskier sighs a bit, his anger completely gone now, and he touches Geralt’s lowered chin gently. “She just needs your love, Geralt.” _So do I,_ Jaskier thinks, but doesn’t say. 

“And you?” Geralt asks, looking at him with eagerness in his eyes, something so tender in the golden light of the early evening that Jaskier feels all his resolve to be stern crumble away. He is too weak to the Witcher’s charm, too weak to resist the wild beatings of his heart at the implication of Geralt’s question. 

“I don’t need more of you than I’ve always had,” he murmurs softly, “But I have always wanted more. Whatever you are willing to give, I would happily cherish…” 

He sounds like a dog begging for affection, and he feels slightly pathetic, but the way Geralt’s eyes light up makes him feel better about that. The witcher comes closer, a question formulating in the slowness of his movements. Jaskier takes pity on him and smiles gently, slowly passing his hand in Geralt’s messy hair. 

“You need to clean this mess,” he tells the witcher as their lips brush against one another. 

“Will you do it?” Geralt has stopped moving, and his breath is warm on Jaskier’s lips. It’s torture, to be so close and yet still apart. “You are the only one who does it properly.” 

Jaskier chuckles slightly. “Alright, my witcher, I will wash your hair.” 

Geralt lights up again and then Jaskier’s eyes are closed, because they are finally kissing, and it feels like he has been waiting for this his whole life, like this is all he has ever needed to stay alive. Who cares about food, drinks, and rest, when Geralt’s kiss is so tender? 

When Jaskier opens his eyes again, his forehead is pressed against Geralt’s, and the witcher’s smile is small, but there and self-satisfied. 

“So, what does that make of us,” Jaskier asks, moving slowly to put both of his hands in Geralt’s hair, enjoying the way the man leans into the touch, “You love me and I love you, but you are still going to Kaer Morhen to protect Ciri. Yennefer is going to need to come with you, as much as I regret it, Ciri is going to need someone to teach her to use her magic properly. And I… Well I’ll probably be going back to Oxenfurt.” 

Geralt’s eyes fly open. “No,” he says hoarsely, “Come with me— with us. Ciri adores you, and you’ll be safe with me in Kaer Morhen.”

“I’m nothing special, Geralt,” Jaskier bites his lower lip, wondering if it is true still. “I’m just a bard. A lucky, lucky bard who loves a witcher, but still just a bard.” 

“You aren’t human anymore,” Geralt says simply, and his nose caresses Jaskier’s cheek as he moves closer into Jaskier’s personal space. “You don’t smell human anymore.” 

“Is that what you are doing, sniffing me?” Jaskier laughs but allows Geralt to leave a trail of gentle kisses from his ear back to his lips. He could definitely get used to that kind of treatment from the witcher. “So what do I smell like then, oh brave witcher?” 

“The sun,” Geralt says and kisses him again. “The hot, beating sun, burning everything.” 

Jaskier remembers the way his body had burnt. He can still feel it in his veins, can still feel that burning overtake him. And his eyes glowing… 

“Geralt,” Jaskier regretfully interrupts his Witcher’s kisses, “Do you remember how you said I was burning and glowing?” 

“I remember seeing you that way pretty well, yes,” Geralt growls, unhappy at the reminder. 

“Did Yennefer find out why yet?” 

“No. We can’t figure it out. We are hoping to find more information in Kaer Morhen’s library. Which is why you should come.” 

“What, not to be with you?” Jaskier teases a bit and smiles at Geralt’s glower. “I’ll come with you, but are you really sure—“ 

“Yes.” Geralt has answered faster than any time Jaskier has seen him, and it makes the bard huff, warmth blooming in his chest. 

“Fine.” 

It takes two other days for Jaskier to be able to move properly, and they are two days filled with attentive tenderness from Geralt, which, while absolutely enjoyable for Jaskier, definitely makes him question if he knows the man at all. That is, until it’s time for them to leave. Yennefer has bought herself a horse, and she intended to buy Ciri one as well, but Geralt had said the girl would ride with him. Now, Roach clearly has other ideas, because when Ciri approaches her, the mare backs away. Jaskier has managed to get on Hellebore’s back, who he had been told had been the one to alert Geralt and Ciri to a problem, and he looks with a frown. Roach isn’t known to like people besides Geralt, but she has let Jaskier get on her multiple times in the past. With a sigh, he glides back to the floor. 

“Ciri, dear, why don’t you take Hellebore? I can walk next to you,” he smiles. 

“Absolutely not,” Geralt snaps at him. “You can’t walk until Kaer Morhen.” 

“So you would rather Ciri be the one walking? It’s your horse causing the issue there,” Jaskier crosses his arms, rising an unimpressed eyebrow at Geralt. 

“You are injured.” 

“Yennefer and you saw this morning that all the wounds are closed. I can walk for the day, or at least until Roach calms down.” 

“Jaskier it’s fine,” Ciri tries to cut in, sensing the rising tension. “I can walk for a bit!” 

“Nonsense,” he tells her. “Hellebore took you to me once, and I’m sure he won’t mind letting you ride him for the day.” 

“You aren’t walking,” Geralt growls, in what would be menacing to everyone except the three people with him in the stables. “I won’t allow it.” 

Jaskier stills, tilts his head, and looks at Geralt calmly. “You won’t allow it.” 

“No.” 

Ciri backs away quickly and Yennefer sighs, but Jaskier is more focused on his lover, who seems very determined to not let Jaskier do as he pleases. 

“And who said you could ban me from doing anything I want? Is that your prerequisite as witcher, Geralt? Is that it, or do you believe that because you and I are in a relationship, it gives you the right to control what I do or not?” 

Geralt must realizes his mistake, because his hands move in front of him defensively. “It’s not—“ 

“Not what you meant? Then make yourself clearer, because I won’t let myself be bossed around, not again. My affection for you doesn’t mean I’ll let you control me. I’m my own fucking person, Geralt.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt attempts, only to be cut again. 

“Don’t! I know myself better than you know me, so if I say I can walk, I mean it, and you’d better trust me!” 

“Jaskier!” It’s Yennefer this time, startling him, and when he turns around, she is shielding Ciri from him. “You need to calm down. Your hands!” 

Jaskier looks down at his hands, and he yelps as he realizes they are burning. Fire envelops them and plays around his knuckles, and the most startling thing isn’t that it’s present, but that he doesn’t feel anything. At most, if he focuses on it, it tickles, but that’s about it. 

“What the fuck,” he blurts out, and ignoring his previous anger turns to Geralt. 

The witcher grabs his hands, wincing slightly from the fire, and puts his cape on them, smothering the fire. “You have fire in you.” 

“What now?” Jaskier asks, staring at his still smoking hands in Geralt’s gentle grip. 

“Fire. Sunfire, probably,” Geralt says and looks at him, frowning a bit. “You aren’t human, and you have sunfire in you Jaskier. Do you understand what that means?” 

“No?” Jaskier isn’t exactly sure what sunfire _is_. “Should I?” 

“It means that you died,” Ciri says in a soft voice, “but rather than cross into the realm of the dead, your spirit harnessed the power of the sun… You are… You absorbed the sun and forced yourself back into your body…” 

Jaskier looks at the young princess, who looks back at him with a strange mixture of awe and fear. It’s not something Jaskier ever wants to see back in her eyes. He can’t stand the idea that she might be afraid of him. 

“Geralt,” he starts in a low voice, trying to not show his distress. “Is she right?” 

The silence that comes from the witcher is all the answer Jaskier needs, but when Geralt sighs a soft “yes,” Jaskier realizes he hadn’t actually let himself believe what they had all been telling him for the last few days. But this is real, he isn’t human, he doesn’t know what he is exactly, but he died and became something else, and he doesn’t know how to deal with that. 

Geralt takes him in his arms and lifts him up gently. “You’re riding with me. Ciri, you’ll take Hellebore.” 

Jaskier lets himself be manhandled, and when Geralt puts him in front of himself, he doesn’t say one thing. He can’t even begin to articulate a thought, and Geralt’s hold on him is the only thing that keeps him grounded to reality. They start the journey, but he barely even notices. He lets his head fall back on Geralt’s shoulder and closes his eyes. This is a mess, and he doesn’t know what to do. 

“Rest,” Geralt murmurs in his hair, and Jaskier, for once, listens to Geralt. 

The trip to Kaer Morhen takes them ten days. After the first day, Jaskier is back riding Hellebore, and Ciri alternates between the three of them. She does her best to keep the moral up, but Jaskier, who would usually be the first one to answer her quips, is silent as he contemplates what his transformation meant. When they stop, Jaskier barely lets himself accept Geralt’s affection, and even Yennefer can’t manage to get a good reply, despite all her needling. He feels empty, void of who he used to be. He doesn’t know what there is left of him in him. Is he not a monster now?

Kaer Morhen, despite time having eroded it, is a beautiful castle, and when they arrive in sight of it, Jaskier is reminded of the few times he had asked Geralt what it was like. The witcher had never quite answered the question to Jaskier’s satisfaction. 

A man is waiting at the gate of the castle, and Jaskier has no doubt that he is seeing Vesemir, Geralt’s mentor, of whom he had heard of only a few times. 

“You brought guests,” Vesemir talks to Geralt, but his eyes are flickering back and forth between Yennefer, Ciri, and Jaskier. “None of them witchers.” 

“All of them in need of help,” Geralt says and dismounts Roach, embracing the older man with heartfelt affection. “They need us.” 

“You brought your child surprise and your sorceress,” he says with what is almost respect, and then his eyes are back on Jaskier, unnerving him. “And your bard.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says and steps back, helping Ciri dismount and Yennefer too, before turning to his lover. “We need to go through the library, Vesemir. What do you know of sunfire?” 

“That it is no force you want to reckon with,” Vesemir shakes his head and lets the company walk through the gate and into the main court. “And that no one has wielded it in century.” 

“Prepare yourself to be surprised then,” Yennefer says, her arm wrapped around Ciri’s shoulder. “I believe we found the one person in the continent who can wield it.” 

“Impossible,” Vesemir grunts, and Jaskier can see the resemblance with Geralt there. It almost makes him smile. 

Removing his glove and extending a hand, Jaskier sighs as he calls up the flame within him to his palm. He has been training to do this at night, when it was his turn to take guard. “Sorry to disappoint,” he says tiredly as the fire bursts through his palm, red and orange dancing there. “But Yennefer says the truth.” 

Vesemir almost stays stunned as he takes in the fire, but he grunts again. “You’ll need the library alright.” 

Geralt gives Jaskier a concerned look, but the bard simply pushes his glove over his hand again, and feels the fire dying out with some satisfaction. It hurts, but Jaskier almost welcomes the pain now. 

Inside, Geralt is reunited with Eskel and Lambert, and introductions are made. Jaskier would have taken advantage of this before, but now he simply feels drained. He just wants to be left alone, and when he is led to an empty bedroom, he is quick to send off everyone, citing the travel’s tiredness. He sinks into his bed, and when he cries, all the noises are muffled by the small pillow. 

He doesn’t visit Kaer Morhen much. He mostly stays in his room, and watches Ciri training with Eskel in the court. Sometimes, the girl sees him and she waves. He makes an effort to wave back each time, but he can’t muster to smile. When Ciri trains with Yennefer, Jaskier doesn’t look. She had offered to train him as well, but he had refused. It’s quite a thing to love a witcher and to befriend a sorceress, but he isn’t sure he has ever belonged in their world. Now that he has been thrust in it, he doesn’t know if he can belong in their world. 

On their fourth morning there, Geralt walks in and throws him a bundled pack of clothes. 

“What’s this?” Jaskier stares at what looks like a leather armour similar to the one Geralt wears. 

“Your armour. Put it on.” 

“Geralt, I don’t—“ 

“Put it on Jaskier,” Geralt growls, and then adds through gritted teeth, “Please.” 

They haven’t so much as kissed in days. Jaskier can’t let himself accept the affection, the tenderness of the witcher. He doesn’t deserve it. He’s a monster. 

Jaskier obeys, if only because it seems to matter to Geralt. Not one to hide his body, he strips quickly and puts the clothes and armour Geralt has given him, and Geralt doesn’t look away even once. It’s intense, and for the first time since Jaskier was told about the sunfire, he feels something shift deep inside him. 

“Come with me,” Geralt orders and leaves the room, clearly having used all of his manners for the day. 

Confused, Jaskier follows him through the castle, into a courtyard much smaller than the one Jaskier’s room oversees. When they had crossed the living room, where Eskel and Ciri had been playing cards while Yennefer read a book in a comfortable looking chair, the three faces had looked at Jaskier’s outfit with surprise, and Jaskier doesn’t doubt that, whatever this is, they are going to be close-by to observe. 

“Geralt, what in the world are we doing here,” Jaskier asks as Geralt grabs two swords, slightly dulled by time. “You aren’t expecting me to use this, are you?” 

“I’m going to train you,” Geralt answers shortly, and extends the bard a sword. 

“Absolutely not,” Jaskier refuses, walking back and shaking his head. He remembers being sore for days after training with Geralt, and he would rather decay in comfort. Or have a quick death, if Geralt has finally realized that Jaskier doesn’t deserve his love, now that he is some kind of undead, fire-wielding monster.

“It wasn’t a question, Jaskier,” Geralt rasps slightly, and forces the sword into Jaskier’s hand. “Defend yourself.” 

Geralt attacks, with none of the speed he uses on monsters, but still with enough brute strength to make Jaskier grunts when he blocks the hit with his one sword. The noise of the two steel swords hitting resonates throughout the empty courtyard. 

“Are you mad?” He shouts, but Geralt is already attacking again. 

Jaskier doesn’t have the time to think, he acts on instinct. He moves sideways, rises his sword, and parries the hit again. Geralt isn’t too harsh on him, he notices that, but it’s enough strength for Jaskier to be panting each time they cross weapons. He attempts a few movements himself, almost believes a few times that he’ll get Geralt, but each time the witcher eludes him. He forgets his worries, focusing on the exercise in front of him. 

He wants to win, so badly, and when Geralt takes a step backwards, Jaskier grins slightly. He feels the burn of his fire inside him, but it doesn’t terrify him. He doesn’t have the time to be terrified, he has to keep reacting. His arms are heavy with the weight of the sword, and he doesn’t understand how Geralt can handle his own so easily. Despite that, Jaskier relishes in the fight, without even noticing it. 

The end of it comes rather quick, only ten minutes of scuffle before Jaskier loses his footing and Geralt hits him in the chest harshly with the pommel of the sword, sending him tumbling to the ground. Jaskier grunts but he doesn’t abandon so easily; when Geralt comes closer to help him up, clearly believing the bard is done for the day, Jaskier kicks him harshly in the knee. Geralt falls, surprised, and Jaskier launches himself at him, tackling him to the ground with more strength than he thought he had. His sword is still in his hand, and he presses the dull blade against Geralt’s throat. 

Golden pupils stare at him, and both are breathing heavily. He is sitting atop Geralt’s chest, his thighs encircling his torso, and he feels more alive than he has in days. He also feels more angry than he has ever since he learnt about his newfound non-humanity. His chest hurts where Geralt hit him, and his arms are sore. His whole body feels strained and taunt, and everything is too warm, which results in him panting slightly as he towers over Geralt. 

“What in all the hells was that?” Jaskier almost barks the question, blade still to Geralt’s throat. He has the feeling he was just played; he doubts Geralt is stuck underneath him, even with a sword pressed again his jugular. 

“When things get hard,” Geralt grunts, his eyes searing into Jaskier’s, “don’t fucking hide away and retreat into yourself. You made it fucking clear enough that I had to talk to you, didn’t you? Return me the favour, you asshole.” 

“I am not—“ 

“You are!” Geralt pushes the blade away from his throat, and sits up. Jaskier slides delicately onto his lap, the witcher keeping him there with two firms hands on his hips. “You are different now, Jaskier, and you’ve to accept that. Things won’t ever be like they were before.” 

The witcher presses his forehead against Jaskier’s, and the bard takes in a quick breath, trying to ignore the tears prickling at his eyes. 

“What if I don’t want things to change,” his voice trembles, “what if I want to go back to the way things were, to being a normal human whose only special thing was being madly in love with a witcher?” 

Small tears are pearling from his eyes, and Geralt caresses them away. “You can’t. You’ll die if the sunfire is taken from you. I’m not ready to lose you again Jaskier. Don’t leave me, please.” 

The last sentence is whispered in such a low voice Jaskier barely hears it. His tears are running more freely now, running down his cheeks over Geralt’s fingers. He sobs, holding onto Geralt’s shirt, hiding his face in the crook of his lover’s neck, and mourns the loss of his previous life. He died and came back different, and he needs to face it now, to stop running away from it. 

“I’m sorry,” he hiccups when he has finally calmed down enough to talk in coherent sentences, rather than the gibberish Geralt had been listening to for the past twenty minutes. “I’m sorry my love. I won’t abandon you ever again…” 

Geralt’s arms tighten around him, and they stay locked in this embrace for some time, losing concept of what it is to be only one rather than this mingled mess of limbs. Jaskier forgets himself in Geralt’s arms. It feels right, suddenly, to be here with him, and it feels right to be /here/, in Kaer Morhen. 

“Sorry to burst in on you,” Yennefer drawls out, amused, “but lunch is about to be served and Vesemir has requested that the both of you clean up before joining the table.” 

“Oh!” Jaskier tries to move back, but Geralt’s hold on him doesn’t lessen, so he simply sighs and looks at the sorceress over Geralt’s shoulder. “We’ll be right there.” 

“Don’t dwindle in your rooms,” she grins at them and Jaskier laughs slightly. 

“I never dwindle!” 

“Except when you’ve got your hands on the one you want.” She smirks and he shrugs, ignoring Geralt as he moves them up. 

He finds himself with his legs wrapped around Geralt’s waist, and he cocks an eyebrow at the white-haired man. “Not to complain, but we are certainly about to walk past your adoptive daughter, as well as your whole family. This position feels slightly indecent, but again, I’m not complaining.” 

Geralt rolls his eyes, and suddenly Jaskier is thrown over his shoulder. “Better?” 

Jaskier taps his ass lightly and grins at the surprised jolt of the witcher. “Lovely sight, I must say.” 

Still watching them, Yennefer hides a chuckle at their antics, and he winks at her as they walk by her. She follows them inside, and sure enough, the whole witcher family is standing next to the window, Eskel and Ciri trying their hardest to pretend like they hadn’t been watching, while Lambert and Vesemir don’t seem to care either way. They nod at Geralt and him, and Jaskier waves slightly. He’ll have to get to know them, since they are important to Geralt. He feels a little stab of guilt at how he locked himself away for four days, ignoring his hosts. What a terrible guest. 

Geralt keeps walking with him over his shoulder, and Jaskier doesn’t complain. 

“It’s good to see you back, Jaskier,” Ciri says, Yennefer back with a hand on her shoulder, “We missed you.” 

Jaskier winks as Geralt takes him out of the room, and he shouts back. “I’m not leaving any time soon, so don’t you worry!” 

Geralt grunts at the loud noise, but his hands tighten slightly on Jaskier. “Good.” 

Jaskier laughs, and he lets his fire warm him. He finally allows himself to feel again. From now on, he won’t let himself be cut off from those he loves. Geralt’s grumpiness or his own isolating-tendencies be damned, Jaskier won’t allow himself to lose all that is good in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Wooohooo I hope you enjoyed it! Leave a comment, kudos, or even come talk to me on tumblr @saltrytransidiot! Anon is on, no need to be worried :) Thanks for reading !!


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